


distractions

by finalizer



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, that's literally all this is. little baby dragons and their dragon dad melkor who sucks at parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-02 16:53:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19445635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finalizer/pseuds/finalizer
Summary: Even when Melkor was not preoccupied with seducing his lieutenant with lavish kisses and rasped promises of more, there were still things that maddeningly,infuriatinglydistracted the meetings.Wriggly, scaly little things.





	distractions

Successfully running a dark empire was easier said than done.

Regardless of how vehemently Manwë and the other sticklers at Valinor insisted that Melkor’s reign of terror was naught more than an agglomeration of random acts of chaos and destruction, the reality was that a truly staggering amount of planning and scheming went into the day-to-day agenda of bringing all of Arda to their knees.

Which, contrary to popular belief, was not simple.

The councils were dull and the orcs attending them even duller. It took hours and countless threats of violent punishment to corral them into a vaguely organized herd, and then some to get them to settle down for long enough to pay attention to meeting itself, to become adequately acquainted with their tasks and responsibilities for the upcoming weeks. 

Mairon watched over the meetings as was his divine right. By definition, of course, said divine right originally belonged to Melkor, but the dark lord of Angband had long since decided he had little interest in the more bureaucratic aspects of warfare. Occasionally he would grace the hall with his presence, when the appropriate mood struck, but more often than not it was solely up to Mairon to command the room.

The lieutenant’s patience was a remarkable thing, but at times even he found his stores running thin.

As such, when the need arose to discuss intricate, sensitive matters that even the brightest of orcs and Valaraukar would have trouble wrapping their minds around, it was easier sometimes to forgo the unruly rabble of captains and commanders altogether and retire to a smaller council room with his lord and nobody else. It eased the flow of communication, removed the unwanted obstacle of having to covey complex strategies to beings unused to much more than bloody battle.

Of course, Melkor, when he put his mind to it, could be just as immature and fickle as the rest of the fortress’ denizens.

A map would be fastened to the table, each of its four edges pinned to the wood with a dagger, a variety of which could often be found lying around the many chambers and sprawling corridors. (Orcs were not tidy creatures. Once, during a night of drinking, Gothmog had relayed the tale of a time he’d come across one such disheveled creature, wandering the halls in search of one of its _fingers_.)

Mairon would discuss the topic at hand at length, going into as much detail as he pleased without the nagging worry of being misunderstood or blatantly ignored.

Though much to Mairon’s displeasure, Melkor tended to be utterly unable—or unwilling—to concentrate.

Past incidents included the following: Melkor bringing his dinner to the council table and irreparably staining the map with whatever it was he’d been devouring, Melkor going over outdated, months-old armory reports in favor of listening to Mairon speak, Melkor picking at his fingernails with a jaggedly twisted hunting knife, and most recently, Melkor outright falling asleep in his chair. Mairon had sat down as well, dumbfounded by the realization that his master had nodded off, and had listened to him snore in abject exasperation.

Worse yet, Melkor had a penchant for taking advantage of the fact that during such meetings, he and Mairon were alone rather than surrounded by dozens of underlings and their beady, black eyes that followed their lords’ every move.

He would stand, stalk around the table to hover menacingly at Mairon’s back. He would nose at his neck, push his golden hair over his shoulder, drag open-mouthed kisses over his jaw, the tips of his ears, as Mairon tensed and tried his very best to remain concentrated on the report he was relaying. Eventually, his fingers would falter over the parchment where he’d been tracing the movement of enemy forces, and he would give in and let himself be shoved forward none too gently, sprawled over the table, gasping in pleasure as his master took him.

Other times, Mairon simply did not allow the interruption, much to Melkor’s displeasure. On those occasions, Melkor pouted much like a petulant elfling being denied a second helping of dessert and was not above resorting to finding new, more creative ways to pull Mairon away from his grueling work.

It was as though he did not understand that given his own lack of desire to stoop down to the level of micromanaging his evil empire, the responsibility fell to Mairon, and Mairon exclusively.

The lieutenant was in charge and he’d be damned if he let his master tug him away from what needed doing through the power of admittedly impressive sexual prowess.

And yet, even when Melkor was not preoccupied with seducing Mairon with lavish kisses and rasped promises of more, there were still things that maddeningly, _infuriatingly_ distracted the meetings.

Wriggly, scaly little things.

The dragons were a pet project of Melkor’s, an experiment that he gladly dedicated a great portion of his time to. That was the official stance. In reality, they were a bunch of spoiled, slithery little brats that disregarded everything they were told and made it their sole purpose to drive Mairon utterly mad.

Melkor let them.

He adored the beasts, pardoned their every misstep, chuckled fondly when innocent passerby happened across minuscule hoards in various nooks and crannies of the fortress’ vast corridors and attempted to plunder a coin or two only to have their fingers chomped at by a ferocious youngling protecting its stash.

And it was the young ones that irked Mairon the most. The fully grown dragons were perfectly capable of minding their own business and lingering about their designated area of the lower levels without intruding and wreaking havoc anywhere and everywhere, emerging only when needed for tasks that required their particular ferocity or skill set.

The hatchlings, however, were an _infestation_.

“Of course, as you very well know, my lord, the first group of scouts that returned reported that—what _are_ you doing?”

Melkor glanced up at Mairon’s sudden change in tone, only to be met with the sight of a small, wobbling dragon pattering around Mairon’s hand where it lay against the map, trying to drag one of his many rings off his finger with its tiny but nevertheless dangerously sharp teeth. 

It looked up at Mairon curiously with a hint of shame at being caught. Shame, or something of that ilk, considering the beasts did not adhere to basic rules of morality, of right and wrong, and therefore had no use for the notion. It tilted its head to regard Mairon with bright red eyes, then whirled around and skittered across the length of the table, down one of the legs, across the glistening tile floor, and onto Melkor’s lap. He paid no mind as the creature wound its way up his arm and cracked a fond smile as it perched upon his shoulder beneath the dark sweep of his hair.

Lips pursed, Mairon watched the exchange with an impassive face. His nerves were frayed. He was reaching his limit.

He cleared his throat and continued bravely.

“They claim that the encampment on the river bank has nearly tripled in size as compared to reports from six months prior. At this rate, the— _would you stop that?”_

The latter part of his remark was directed at yet another scaly little beast that’d snuck its way onto the back of his chair and was now avidly yanking at the glistening strands of his hair as it flowed in loose waves down his back.

Mairon whirled around to grasp at the dragon but it squeaked in fright and scuttled away to cower beneath the table.

With a huff of disbelief and all-encompassing air of exasperation, Mairon rounded on Melkor. The heat of his pointed glare was so chock-full of boiling hatred it bordered on treason.

“Might you try and control your children?” he inquired, as pleasantly as he could given the fragile state of his temper.

Melkor, the bastard, was visibly amused by this turn of events.

“They cannot help their attraction to what glitters. I daresay your hair qualifies, ornate as it is.”

“They need to be disciplined.”

“You said it yourself—they’re only children.”

"Children need to be disciplined,” Mairon insisted.

He took a moment to compose his features into something resembling a polite, albeit desperate plea for help before continuing:

“Just last week, I found a pile of the wretched things sleeping beneath the bench in my forge.”

The dragon that had curled up on Melkor’s shoulder leaped into his lap and rearranged itself into a more comfortable position atop his thigh, puffing out a cloud of smoke from its nostrils in comfortable contentment.

Naturally, Melkor was delighted. He rarely showed affection to such a degree as he did with his horrid little creatures.

“The temperature in your forge must be to their satisfaction.”

“Given as you care so deeply for their wellbeing, my lord, I ought to inform you that a forge is no place for _children_ to play, regardless of how agreeable they find its conditions.”

Melkor shifted in his chair, sending the tiny dragon rolling off onto the floor, where it zipped across the tile to join its cowering comrade underneath the table.

“I see your pride has not yet recovered from their bold theft of your broadsword.”

The smirk across his master’s lips dripped with amusement. Mairon briefly considered marching down to the stables, commandeering a horse, and making his way to Aulë’s forges to beg for his old post back.

“Though unfinished, it was no less sharp. Again, an unsuitable toy for uncoordinated younglings.”

Melkor knew full well that it was not the dragons’ welfare that plagued the mind of his lieutenant.

Above all else, Mairon valued order. Everything he dealt with on a regular basis had to be under his control down to the smallest of details, from the deliveries of daily rations to the training regimes of new fighters. A single cog out of place had the potential to derail the whole machine of war, and in doing so was bound to drive the Maia in question absolutely ballistic.

Dozens of writhing little beasts traversing the corridors with reckless abandon and plunging the neat structures of the fortress into disarray were a nightmare come to life, and Melkor imagined that one day Mairon’s limit would be reached and he would promptly implode in a fit of violent rage.

That, of course, was unacceptable.

As much as it pleased Melkor to see his dragons skittering about having a jolly time, before they grew strong enough to be molded into instruments of war, he knew he could not let them do so at the cost of his lieutenant’s sanity. (Not all the time, at least. Only sometimes. Every so soften, Mairon could use a demonstration on letting loose and having fun.)

“Very well. Off with you,” he said.

There was no need to raise his voice or specify explicitly whom the instructions concerned. The rowdy dragons fell still at once and twisted around to peer up at their master with wide eyes, before scattering away in a relatively uniform line towards the door, which had been left ajar for their convenience.

Mairon blinked.

As he got to his feet, Melkor watched the surprise settle across his Maia’s face. Despite what Mairon thought, the little beasts were not nearly as unruly as they appeared to be. Only once they knew their place and the function they would one day serve, once they knew they followed Melkor and were required to obey his every command without question, only then were the younglings allowed free rein to terrorize the unsuspecting inhabitants of the great fortress. It was the correct order of things: obedience, followed by reward.

“Truly, you did not think I would allow them to remain untamed,” Melkor said, beginning his slow prowl around the length of the table to where Mairon sat. “There is no place for feral beasts in my ranks.”

“No, of course not,” Mairon agreed, realizing he had been bested.

He tried not to look too impressed with the notion of Melkor learning to control the pesky little things with such unquestionable success, lest his apparent awe inflate his master’s ego and drive him to become all the more insufferable.

Melkor hummed, low and humored. “And yet you seem taken aback.”

Remaining rigidly seated, Mairon stared straight ahead as Melkor stalked around him, eventually vanishing out of his field of vision. He did not flinch as his master’s hand finally made contact, as it brushed the silken tresses of his hair over one shoulder, ashen fingertips skimming across the smooth, warm skin of his neck.

“My apologies, my lord,” he said. His voice was as even as it could possibly be given the circumstances. “I merely had not expected their training to be in so advanced a stage.”

The touch upon his shoulder felt more insistent then; Melkor’s fingers pressed down harder as though adamant to get his attention. It did not take more than a moment for Mairon to grasp what it was his master wanted from him.

He took a shaky breath—after all this time, Melkor’s touch upon him never ceased to affect him this way—and moved to stand. He turned soundlessly and raised his head to meet Melkor’s eyes.

There was a sharp smirk playing at his master’s lips, the kind that promised a reckoning.

“You should know by now, Mairon, that I am capable of making even the wildest of spirits come to heel.”

Before Mairon was given the chance to react to the words, to swallow down the burst of sudden heat, the way his stomach lurched and his pulse quickened, Melkor’s fingers were beneath his chin, tilting his head back and angling him into a deep, wholly overwhelming kiss.

And just like that, he was lost. Without waiting for permission, Mairon jerked forward and twisted his hands into the front of his master’s robes, pressed himself flush against his broad frame as Melkor’s hand trailed over his jaw and settled at the nape of his neck, weaving into his hair.

Of course, an ending such as this was not uncommon.

As per tradition, Melkor had taken the usual way out and decided that luring his loyal lieutenant to bed was a more rewarding pastime than listening to him drone on and on about the intricacies of their never-ending fight with the forces of good. Better yet, it was one of those wonderful, blessed occasions wherein Mairon acquiesced and let himself get dragged out of the council hall with little to no complaint. He followed where his master led, choosing to neglect his responsibilities just this once. Just once. Maybe twice. Maybe this was becoming a pattern.

The map remained stretched out over the table, abandoned and forgotten, as the two occupants of the room slipped out the door and down the twisting corridor.

And by some miracle, Angband remained standing, dark and imposing, even as Melkor triumphed once more, distracting his lieutenant from tending to its menacing glory.

**Author's Note:**

> i've lichrally been unable to stop thinking about melkor (poorly) parenting baby dragons since i saw [this post](https://poe-tay-toe.tumblr.com/post/172466588884/tiny-dragonlings-bringing-melkor-gold-coins-and) so shoutout to tumblr user poe-tay-toe for making this teeny tiny ficlet happen. i mean it started out as a baby dragon fic and then it kinda got away from me but the point still stands
> 
> [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/finaIizer) & [tumblr](https://tarmairons.tumblr.com)


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